


The Valley Of Fear (1888)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [79]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Engagement, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Revenge, Vampires, cover-up, hungary - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 02:25:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10912422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Sherlock and John face another case with a preternatural element, as a mighty empire has to cope with a vampire problem – but can the great detective solve the riddle of the valley in which even armed men fear to tread? (Hint: yes).





	The Valley Of Fear (1888)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MashiarasDream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashiarasDream/gifts).



Foreword: Although this is the same story as was published last century, I am sure that my sharp-eyed readers will note that one of the main characters does not go down with his ship in an Atlantic storm whilst fleeing from justice. In fact, I know – because he instructed his lawyers that I be informed – he died only some four years ago (1932), but that his kinsman and travelling companion lives on, some thousands of miles away from the scene of their 'crime'. And in this case, that was probably how things should have been. 

+~+~+

My original title to this story had a double meaning, not (for obvious reasons) divulged to my readers at the time. I do not think that I am at all fanciful, but events during our trip across the Continent caused me to possibly reconsider that belief. Although the case took place around the Hungarian town of Volgafel – the name means 'valley of fear' – events prior to that should be related first.

It was one of those quirks of fate that, the day after solving the case of the Vatican cameos, a telegram reached us from England. I assumed initially it was from the surgery, possibly asking for my return, but instead found to my surprise that it was from my brother. I read the contents with amazement.

“Not bad news, I hope”, Sherlock said, materializing behind me at the table. Of course I did not jump in shock, or let out a girly shriek at being surprised in such a manner. 

(All right, I did. Sherlock said he would not let me publish this story unless I put that bit back in, the bastard!)

I glared at the man.

“It is from Sammy”, I said. “He has finally asked that girl he met at university in Edinburgh to marry him, and for some strange reason she has actually said yes!”

After our meeting during the Musgrave Ritual case, my brother had returned to complete his law course in the Scottish capital, graduating (top of his class, of course!) in 'Eighty-One. He had then been fortunate enough to obtain a junior position at a practice in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. When his company had opened a second office in the town of Berwick-on-Tweed two years back, I new that Sammy had been doubly desperate to move there, because the girl he had known in college, Jessica Moore, came from that town. I had ribbed him about spending all those years in college being afraid to say anything, but it seemed that she had been prepared to wait, for they had taken up again almost immediately on his arrival in England's most northerly outpost. Though quite why she had abandoned good sense and said yes to the moose, heaven only knew.

I had met Miss Moore only the one time, when they had come down last Christmas. She had impressed me with her strong personality (bizarrely, we shared the same birthday, although she was younger), though when she did what most of the female population seemed wont to do and smiled dreamily at Sherlock, I had had hard work to avoid an eye-roll of magnificent proportions. Honestly, sometimes it was as if the scruffy-haired angel had a huge sign above his head which said 'ready, willing and available'! Well, not any more!

Sherlock sat down and stared curiously at me.

“You are happy for your brother?” he asked, helping himself to some coffee.

“Of course”, I said. “I just wish..... you know, that I could tell him.”

A small part of me, to which I barely listened, muttered that the all too observant Sammy probably knew full well just what sort of relationship my friend and I really had. I looked down, and realized that I had been gripping my spoon so hard that I had succeeded in slightly bending it. Fortunately my friend had not noticed (or was tactful enough not to remark on the fact), and I sipped my own coffee thoughtfully.

+~+~+

Our next stop was on leaving Padua and its murderous hermits was La Serenissima, Venice, which was so wonderful that we spent a whole week there taking in the sights. I did not like the idea of going around on the water, even though it was of course flat calm, but Sherlock found a restaurant where moored gondolas were set up outside, then the food brought out to us. I loved him even more for a small but considerate act like that.

We journeyed through the beautiful eastern Alps – suggestions by a certain blue-eyed genius as to the possibility of a cable-car ride were met with a frosty glare – and reached glorious Vienna three days before Christmas, where once more I dragged Sherlock around all the tourist sites. He seemed a little bemused by my (over-)enthusiasm, but was prepared to go along with it because he was – well, Sherlock. I was happy, and he seemed happy that I was happy. When I presented him with the pipe-case that I had purchased from Mr. Leowitz in London, I knew he felt guilty that he had not thought to buy me anything, even though I insisted that the holiday itself was more than enough. 

These were the halcyon days of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, when the polyglot Hapsburg dominions had been basically split in twain, ruled jointly from Vienna and Budapest (a snarky “Times” journalist had quipped that this had been done merely so the Austrians and Hungarians could each suppress their respective minorities who wanted independence, which had been cynical but probably a little too close to the truth). We continued our unhurried way down the beautiful blue Danube and spent a pleasant day in Bratislava, then continued on to the lovely city of Budapest, which I enjoyed greatly. The latter would be one of our last ports of call before turning for home, because I wanted to venture as far east as the Crimean Peninsula and witness the battlefields and memorials of the still-recent war there. And best of all, there were no more unfortunate happenings that required my genius friend's investigative abilities.

I really, really should have known better.

+~+~+

Even though we were travelling as private gentlemen, word had somehow reached the British embassy in Budapest of our arrival in the city, and on New Year's Eve a telegram arrived at our hotel asking us if we might call on the British ambassador. Not for an official function or anything, oddly enough, but in a private capacity. Somewhat worried at the vagueness in the message, I accompanied my friend to the embassy the following day, our departure having been postponed for twenty-four hours. I hoped that it was not to be for longer.

Sir Hugh Baffington-Smythe was the archetypal Briton abroad, I thought upon meeting him. He was about fifty, a solidly-built patrician of a man with pale blond hair and a moustache, and a military air about him. This did not come as a surprise; I knew that his family hailed from my home county of Northumberland (indeed, from Bamburgh, close to my home village of Belford), and that his father and younger brother were both in the army. I also noticed, with some terror, a set of Northumbrian bagpipes on a chair in the corner of the room. I silently prayed that we would escape without having heard them in use.

Unusually for a diplomat, Sir High got straight to the point.

“I know that you two gentlemen wish to continue with your vacation”, he said, “but I wondered if you would care to investigate a rather curious matter that has come to my attention? It would, I am afraid, mean a considerable detour, heading to Debrecen before taking a local train to Kolozsvár. We have a mission up there, and our man would of course help with any arrangements to get you back on course.”

“Perhaps you would care to tell us what this involves”, Sherlock smiled. The diplomat fiddled nervously with his moustache.

“Vampires”, he said at last.

Whatever else I may have been expecting, that was not it.

“Vampires?” I said incredulously. Sir Hugh nodded.

“Take a seat, gentlemen”, he said. “This may take some explaining.”

+~+~+

“Volgafel is a small village about ten miles from Kolozsvár, on the edge of the province of Transylvania”, he began. “Although that seems close to civilization, it is a sparsely-populated area, and from what our man on the ground says, culturally very backwards. It is also home to a rebel movement as far as the government here in Budapest is concerned; many Transylvanians wish to federate with or become part of Rumania, even though that state is barely ten years old.”

I smiled inwardly at the unwitting condescension in his voice. I knew that the political instability in the Balkans was causing unease across Europe, and that particularly after the recent Russo-Ottoman war, Great Britain was still fearful that the Bear was seeking to establish a presence in the Mediterranean, threatening British links with its eastern empire.

“Despite being in the middle of nowhere, Volgafel is of historical importance”, Sir Hugh went on. “It is the site of a battle fought and lost against the Ottomans, who pursued a group of Wallachian rebels into Hungary during the rebellion of 'Seventy-Seven, and wiped them out there. Not a single man survived, the prisoners being murdered after the battle was over, presumably in an attempt to cower the locals. It therefore holds much meaning for the people there. And now, we have vampires to add to the mix.”

“How so?” Sherlock asked.

“Three months ago, an off-duty soldier was found unconscious. He was one of a group carrying out a patrol in the village, and had become separated whilst investigating a barn. His fellow soldiers found him lying unconscious up against a cart – with two puncture wounds in his neck! The Carpathian Hills nearby are renowned for stories of vampires sucking the blood of their victims.”

“What did he remember?” Sherlock asked.

“Just everything going black”, the diplomat said. “He thought that there was some sort of winged creature around, but he wasn't sure. The soldiers left the area rather quickly.”

“I am not surprised!” I said. He smiled.

“I should have explained that Volgafel is, in effect, the 'capital' of the valley”, Sir Hugh continued. “There are no places of any size between it and Kolozsvár. Two weeks ago a night patrol went up the valley. It got about halfway when they stopped to investigate a local house. It was a huge place, and when the soldiers reassembled, one of their number was missing. The man was eventually found lying in a barn – dead this time, and again with two puncture-wounds on his neck! The soldiers immediately abandoned the patrol and returned to the town.”

Sherlock pressed his fingers together.

“Have there been any further patrols up the valley?” he asked.

“One”, Sir Hugh said. “Over a hundred men marched all the way to Volgafel and back again, and never split into groups smaller than threes. Nothing happened.”

My friend smiled knowingly, before turning to me.

“I think”, he said, “that a little trip to vampire country is in order. Tell me, Sir Hugh, does the local commander speak English?”

“He should”, the diplomat smiled. “He is half-Welsh, claiming direct descent from the great Llywelyn himself. His name is Llywelyn Feher.”

+~+~+

I had been surprised to learn that the Hungarians would readily accept being told to do by a foreigner, though after a few moments with Captain Llywelyn Feher, I quickly realized just why. The man was frankly terrifying! He must have been six foot six at least, a solid hunk of humanity with curly red hair and a sharp face. He also seemed wary of both of us, although that could have been just natural xenophobia. 

“I would of course be grateful if you and the doctor could help clear up this case”, he said courteously. “The effect on the men's morale is crushing, and the excursion up the valley in force last week didn't help.”

“Why?” I asked. He turned to me.

“We are in what amounts to hostile territory here, doctor”, he explained. “This is some miles outside Transylvania proper, but the local people see themselves as part of that area, and most of them want out of the Empire. I am sure that they are hoarding weapons for a possible uprising somewhere in the area, though I doubt they would be stupid enough to do so anywhere around Volgafel, now that we have made our interest in the area clear.”

Sherlock looked at him curiously. His next question surprised me. 

“Your mother came from this country?” he asked. 

“Yes”, our host answered, clearly wondering at the relevancy of the question. “From Brasso, down by the Rumanian border.”

Sherlock nodded.

“We shall be going that way when we leave here”, he said, “as it is the last stop before the border. And the two soldiers?”

That seemed to evince a reaction. The Welshman bristled.

“Feher – no relation; it's a common enough name over here, translates as 'White' – was the first victim. He is a good man, a little prone to drink, but then we all have our weaknesses. It was also he who found the dead man, Rathor, during the second raid.”

“I am surprised that he wanted to go again after his experience”, I observed.

The soldier turned to me.

“He is a good man”, he repeated. “He knows his duty.”

“Local men?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, both from the town”, the soldier said, clearly wondering where Sherlock was going with this line of questioning. “Sir....”

“Are you planning any further excursions up the valley?” my friend interrupted.

The Welshman looked as if he was considering whether to trust us, before seemingly deciding that it was worth the risk. 

“Yes”, he said. “An unannounced raid against a farm just beyond Volgafel, at daybreak the day after tomorrow. There is nothing there, but I think a second raid passing off safely might help calm the men down.”

“The doctor and I are travelling on to Brasso tomorrow”, Sherlock announced, which was news to me. “I do not think that there is anything here worth investigating, sir, although I am sure that Sir Hugh back in Budapest would expect to be informed of any future... developments.”

I wondered at the pause. The Welshman nodded.

“He shall so be”, he said.

+~+~+

“You did not mention that we would be moving on so soon”, I said, perhaps a little petulantly as we sat in our hotel room later that day. 

“I do not intend to go far”, Sherlock said. “Just to the next fair-sized town south, from which we shall wait for developments.”

“And what developments would those be?” I inquired. 

He smiled at me mischievously.

“The next vampire attack”, he said. “I expect it to occur during the raid on the farm in two days' time. We shall return to the town that day, and sort matters out.”

“Sorting out a vampire?” I asked dubiously. 

“I rather think that this particular sort of vampire can be reasoned with”, he said enigmatically.

I frowned, because I knew from the look on his face that he would say no more. And worse luck, I was for once right!

+~+~+

I did not sleep well that night as, unfortunately, we had had to settle for two rooms in different parts of the hotel. Apparently I was now destined not to get my full eight hours unless I had a human octopus wrapped around me every night. Ah well.

The following day, we made our departure from the rather decrepit station in Kolozsvár (I noticed at least one soldier watching us depart, which meant that Captain Feher was keeping tabs on us), and proceeded south as far as the next town, Gyĕres, before getting off and booking into a hotel there. It was a pleasant enough area, and I enjoyed our day there walking around the town, although once again there were rather too many mountains in the area for comfort! But at least we had adjoining rooms, so I was able to sleep properly with my man.

The next morning we boarded an early train back to Kolozsvár. I wondered to myself if this might be the first time that my friend's colossal self-confidence might actually be misplaced. Then I saw the look of shock on Captain Feher's face when we were announced, and thought, possibly not. The Welshman looked far from pleased to see us.

“There has been another attack, I presume?” Sherlock asked. "Although fortunately not a fatal one."

The soldier looked at him sharply. 

“How the hell do you know that?” he demanded. “The men only got back three hours ago!”

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully, before turning to me.

“Tell me doctor”, he said conversationally, “how do you think the Austro-Hungarian government would react to the news that one of their army officers was in league with people seeking to break up their country?”

I gaped, though my expression cannot have been more shocked than that of the Welshman.

“I think that you have outstayed your welcome, gentlemen”, he said acidly.

Sherlock turned back to him.

“I know everything that you did”, he said firmly. “I should like to know one thing, though. Why did you do it?”

I thought for a moment that the soldier was going to continue denying whatever he had done, but his shoulders slumped and he all but fell back into his chair. For a while he just sat there, before pulling himself together and extracting a framed photograph and passing it over to Sherlock, who showed it to me. It was of two young men in army uniform, their arms around each other and both smiling broadly at the photographer. Sherlock nodded understandingly.

“Your brother?” he asked.

“Half-brother”, the Welshman said with a sigh. “My father was Welsh, from Porth in the Rhondda, and he died when I was three. My mother stayed in Wales and married another Welshman, a miner out of Maerdy called Davy Jones. She was worried that I would not approve when I grew up, but my stepfather is a good man, and they are happy together. That is – was - Owain, their son, who was five years younger than me.”

“What happened to him?” Sherlock asked. The soldier's face darkened.

“Owain did not have a drop of Hungarian blood in him”, he said darkly. “Welsh born and bred, but he took to the Carpathians like it was his native land, even more so than me. He came to view the Hungarians as the enemy, occupying the lands of his people, and did everything he could to unseat them. I warned him to take care, but he thought that he was indestructible.”

I belatedly figured things out.

“You are a double agent”, I said. The soldier hung his head, but did not deny it.

“It must have taken you over a decade, judging from your age”, Sherlock said gently. “Sir Hugh told us about the massacre at Volgafel; that was when your brother was killed. You found out that he had been betrayed, and you were able to use your contacts to, eventually, find the man responsible.”

“Who was?” I asked.

“Private Rathor”, Sherlock said crisply. “The sole victim of the 'vampire'.”

He turned back to the soldier.

“It was all exceptionally well-planned”, Sherlock said. “Once you were in a position of power, you arranged for the men to mount a raid on the valley. You knew the stories about vampires, and how it got its name – Volgafel, the Valley of Fear – and played on that. You arranged with Private Feher that he would be the first 'victim', and either you or he inflicted the false puncture wounds on his neck. Is he a relation, by the way?”

The soldier nodded.

“Martin, my first cousin”, he said. “The son of my mother's sister, Anna.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Then comes the second raid”, Sherlock said. “This is what you have been planning for all along. You did not mention it to us, but you led that raid. It was easy to get Private Rathor alone for a moment, away from the others. You gagged him, then, I would wager, told him why you were about to kill him. I dare say that if we put in for the body to be disinterred, we would still be hard put to find where the fatal wound went in, but you killed him. Was your cousin involved?”

Captain Feher shook his head.

“He was keeping watch for the others”, he said. “The murder is mine and mine alone, and I take full responsibility for it. My deputy - another Feher, but no relation this time - agreed to be the victim this time; I saved his life once, so he owed me.”

I knew from the look on his face that the man did not regret his murder in the slightest. Nor, on reflection, did I feel he should. His brother had been destroyed by the actions of another, and he had only sought justice for one he loved. I would have done exactly the same.

“A just vengeance”, I said before I could stop myself. Sherlock looked at me.

“Do you think so?” he asked. “It is still murder.”

“I would do the same if it had been someone I loved”, I said firmly.

“Like your brother”, he said understandingly.

If I was being strictly truthful with myself, it had not been Sammy that I had been thinking of when I uttered those words, but a certain person not so far away. Mercifully Sherlock turned back to the Welshman, though the fractional hesitation before he did so was more than a little unnerving.

“The doctor finds in your favour”, he said, “and in the light of the evidence, I am inclined to agree with him. But you cannot continue here, sir. Not after taking a life, even if it was the life of a Judas.”

The Welshman nodded.

“I had thought to go to Patagonia, or even the Falkland Isles”, he said. “It is the other side of the world, and there are Welsh communities down there. I shall take my cousin, if he will come with me.”

“I would advise you both so to do”, Sherlock said. “The doctor will doubtless be making a novel out of this small adventure, but I am sure that he can be persuaded to amend the ending, doubtless making you die a death in a freak storm at sea that his readers will consider as just and fitting.”

“Thank you, sir”, the soldier smiled.

I looked back down at the picture Sherlock was still holding, and mused on the ties of family and friendship, and the lengths that some people would go to honour them.

+~+~+

Bearing in mind the times before when I had objected to Sherlock's differentiation between justice and the law, he would have been fully within his rights to point out my own 'morality' here. But he said nothing about it. It was not until we had been back in England for a little over a month that he showed me a small newspaper article about the sinking of the “Florentia”, sailing from Naples to South America. Listed amongst the missing passengers were a Captain Llewelyn Feher and a Private Martin Feher. 

“So they did not make it”, I said sadly.

Sherlock looked at me knowingly, and it took a disturbingly long time for it to sink through. 

“Bacchus”, he said. “He arranged for their names to be added for me. The two men made their destination safely, my friend.”

That was one of those rare times that I had ever been glad to see a murderer escape.

+~+~+

Postscriptum: I was frankly not surprised when, some nine years after our adventure in Transylvania, the Irish author Bram Stoker published his famous “Dracula” novel set close by the area in which this case had taken place. Of course vampires are not real, but I would have defied anyone to visit this area and not to have been affected by its chilling beauty. The people of the area eventually got their wish as a result of the Great War, and Cluj, as Kolozsvár was renamed, became Rumania's second-largest city.

+~+~+

Our next adventure would be in the Russian town of Odessa. Well, sort of.


End file.
